


Burning Bright

by Lauzzkaban



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauzzkaban/pseuds/Lauzzkaban
Summary: Game of Thrones fan fiction beginning at the end of Season 7. The army of the dead creeps ever closer, The North risk being at war with each other, and Jon Snow must decide who he really is.Work in progress.





	Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since I wrote fan fiction, so I'm a little rusty, and this is my first GoT inspired one. A work in progress but I'll aim for reasonably quick updates. All feedback (and corrections if necessary) welcomed graciously. Here we go, then...

Jon Snow paces his cabin aboard the ship bound for home. It had been hours, at least two, since they had set sail for White Harbour and he had been pacing ever since. His legs are aching now. He ceases for a moment, just a short moment to catch his reflection in the mirror in the corner. The scars adorning his chest are angrier than ever, looking as though they could seep blood again at any moment. He briefly wonders if resurrection halts the healing process. No, that can't be right. Beric Dondarrion was resurrected far more often than he, and his scars looked nothing like Jon's. _What does it matter?_ Jon says to himself, shaking himself from his thoughts.

He then notices that his lips are still tinted blue from the icy waters beyond The Wall, and he shivers, suddenly aware of the still very noticeable chill in his bones. Weeks it has been, perhaps longer, and still no amount of hot baths or rest under layers of soft furs have been able to bring his body back to a normal temperature. Still, he supposes he should be grateful. If not for her, he's sure he would be much colder than this. He would surely be part of the Night King's army by now. If she hadn't been there... He shudders at the thought.

He had been convinced that Gendry's raven wouldn't reach her in time. He had never felt his heart pound so, thumping within his chest so hard and fast he felt it might burst right through his skin as wight after wight was upon him, screeching that ever inhuman sound that made his every nerve vibrate, every muscle in his body feeling as though it was being torn apart with every swing of his sword. He had stood on that ledge as his men fought behind him, watching the dead creep closer, death creep closer, and used the last of his inner strength to raise Longclaw high above his head, ready to bring it down on as many as he could. He knew the end was coming, but he was determined to go down fighting. He had braced himself hard upon the icy ground, and then... Heat.

Glorious heat soaking into every inch of his skin, and he had almost let himself bask in it before his men's' horror stricken shouts had snapped him back to reality, and he had barely half a second to throw himself to the ground before glowing orange flames hurtled past them and set trail after trail of the ground ablaze. Dozens of dead men fell against the snow in flames, their bones scorched. Jon was sweating. He had almost forgotten what that felt like and briefly acknowledged that no fire he had lit on his marches North had made him sweat like this. It was then that he noticed them. Those magnificent, winged creatures soaring fiercely above their heads, screeching and breathing long, hot trails of fire from their throats down onto the snow below them. His eyes found her then, the Dragon Queen, sitting atop the largest, guiding him to the ground with fire still erupting from his mouth.

Jon had forced himself to his feet, swinging his sword ruthlessly with a new, ferocious determination. How many he brought down he could not say, and the enormous paths of fire brought down hundreds easily, but still they remained surrounded and immensely outnumbered. It seemed to go on for hours, although it was probably only minutes, until everything seemed to grind to a halt around him. The screech was earth shattering, the most unworldly sound, and Jon turned, looking towards the light of fire above them. It had happened so fast and yet almost in slow motion. One of the dragons, the golden one, bursting into a ball of flame, blood raining down on them before he came crashing to the ground, shrieking, shattering the ice with his massive weight and sinking into the frozen water below.

Jon had caught sight of Daenerys then, staring at the hole in the ice where her dragon had been just seconds before, the fire in her violet eyes dwindling rapidly. He had never seen pain like it, and a fire of his own built inside him like nothing he had ever felt before, slowly and then all at once. He sensed those cold, blue eyes on his back and turned, looking into the face of the Night King, and the fire within him became an inferno of rage. Jon barraged his way toward him, cutting down every wight that approached him with ease, stopping only when he noticed the ice spear in the Night King's hand.

"Go!" he had bellowed as he turned, fuelling his voice with every ounce of energy he had left. "Leave, now!" And he ran, cutting down more and more dead soldiers as he did so. He hadn't failed to notice that Daenerys had hesitated for a moment, and he wasn't sure it was solely so their men could mount the dragon. Two, three short rumblings of the ground below and they were in the air, leaving him alone on the ground. He made to follow their path, still swinging Longclaw with all his might, until an almighty weight knocked him to the ground. He heard the cracking of the ice before he felt it, and then the pain came. Searing, excruciating pain all over his body as he sank lower and lower into the water, thrashing against the creature dragging him down. Six knives to his chest had been less painful than this.

Jon had not remembered much after that. He vaguely remembered falling onto the ice above, unable to breathe, and Benjen Stark, looking half dead himself, lifting Jon onto a horse, but then, blackness. When he had woken, Daenerys had been there too, watching him, waiting. He had never felt so cold. Whether it was the aftermath of being in the water or the pain on her face as she looked at him, he could not say. All he knew was that he had no desire to ever feel that way again, and he made a vow to himself to avenge her loss.

_Now I'm here._ Jon says to himself, drawing his eyes away from the mirror. Their business in King's Landing over with and enough of his strength regained to continue travelling, they sail for Winterfell, so he can present the Dragon Queen to his people and find some way to tell them he has pledged himself to her. He shakes the thought away, refusing to think on it now. Now he has fire building in him again, a different fire, and before he can dwell on it he's fully dressed once more, crossing the ship's narrow hall to find himself outside her quarters. His fist trembles as he raises it and his breathing becomes erratic. He pauses for only a moment, before he lays just three soft raps against the door.


End file.
